The Movement of Stars (2 page)

The first time she’d observed the stars from anywhere but the walk, she and Edward couldn’t have been more than four or five. That was the year their father had taken them on their first overnight camping trip. Carrying battered canvas tent and poles, potatoes and bedrolls, they hiked two miles west along the Madaket road to Maxcy’s Pond. Her father strapped the cookpot to Hannah’s small pack, laughing as it clanked along with each step she took, first along their own narrow sand- and-dirt street, past all the neighbors on both sides. The weathered grey shingles clung to the squat saltbox houses like fish scales, and the lamps, just lit, cast a warm yellow glow into the late afternoon. As they headed out of Town, the houses grew farther apart, surrounded by farms with fields of high corn waving in the twilight, the Prices’ own acre and a half tucked in among them, and then disappeared altogether, and the family had heard only the crickets and their own footfalls in the sea-damp air.

It was August. They set up their camp as twilight deepened, the evening punctured with the glow of fireflies. Their bellies were full of boiled potatoes and the blueberries they’d picked along the way, and as darkness descended, Nathaniel led the twins along a trail, slender as a willow tree, that opened into a small clearing. He laid out a scratchy old blanket and the three lay with their heads touching in the center, like the spokes of a wheel, as the stars glimmered into the sky. As the night deepened, Hannah tried to commit them to memory, each in turn, until they blurred together and she slept beneath them.

At dawn, Hannah went with Nathaniel to collect oysters at low tide, holding tightly to his hand as they waded among the shoals, and he named everything for her as it passed underfoot: mosses and crustaceans, water-weeds and tiny silver fish that darted among their toes— making her laugh and leap into his arms.

The memory of his bony shoulder pressed to her cheek now lightened her mood in the garret. Nathaniel had been her ballast, a fountain of curiosities in her child’s world of hard benches at Meeting and lined copybooks at school. He had a brightness then that seemed never to diminish; Hannah often wondered if Edward’s departure was but the final blow in a series of disappointments she had charted with her own eyes, ranging from physical to financial.

She inhaled deeply, as if she could still smell the humid, salt-soaked dawn of her childhood memory. It was enough to buoy her for the work ahead, even as the empty room reminded her that one upstanding daughter did not make up for one disobedient, seagoing son.

y the time Hannah changed into her First Day dress and lit the fire, it was nearly six a.m. She was used to the echoey ring of fatigue, but there was no comfort in the thought of the morning ahead. The weekly ritual of silent worship at the Meeting House had once soothed her, the swish of skirts and conversation settling into quiet like sand to the bottom of Miacomet Pond. It was beautiful not for any divine revelation— not to her, anyway—but for the way the hours in the hard-backed pew seemed to stretch time like taffy. It had been the perfect place to think, to contemplate, to dream.

But as her schoolmates married or moved off-Island, meeting for worship had devolved into a chore, and she dragged her feet as she stirred together flour and salt for graham bread. If Hannah arrived early, someone was sure to try and engage her in gossip, or suggest that she attend this or that lecture or event. If she was late, a hundred pairs of eyes would observe her as she made her way to her seat, gauging her dress or her demeanor, wondering about her future.

She was just about to pour the batter into the pan when she heard a soft, rhythmic knocking, just audible over the hiss of the damp firewood. Someone was drumming gently on the front door.

Swinging it open, Hannah blinked twice. A dark-skinned man stood in the dim, grey morning, a swaddled bundle tucked into the crook of his arm. A seaman of some lower rank, she decided immediately, examining him in one long glance. His boots were cracked white with salt, and though his pants and jumper were clean, they were inadequate for the weather. Studying his hands, she wondered if he was Ethiopian. He wasn’t as dark as most Africans she’d seen—closer to the color of honey or new molasses. Perhaps he was Wampanoag or South American. He was as tall as Hannah, who towered over nearly everyone, which made averting her eyes awkward. She looked back at his hands. The contrast between the pink of his nails and the brown of his skin was strange, as was the white of his palms, cradling an object. She wished she’d put on her bonnet.

She cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows, hoping he spoke English.
“Is that a chronometer?” she asked, nodding at the parcel in his hands. It was nearly six and thirty; if she didn’t get the bread done before she left for Meeting, she’d go hungry till noon.
“I am knocking upon the door,” he said finally, and nodded at the wide wooden entry as if it were faulty, which it was. It needed a whitewash, as did the rest of the house, and the useless door-knocker—an old brass hummingbird missing its beak—was still broken.
“And I heard thee,” Hannah said, choosing the formal mode of address reserved for elders, hoping that it would silence any further comment on the state of her door by a stranger of indeterminate race. She found the so-called plain speak of the Friends to be a useful tool for keeping one’s distance, though hardly anyone under age fifty used it anymore outside of the Meeting House or conversation with their parents.
She held out both arms for the bundle he carried; he hesitated for a second, then passed it to her.
“Are you wedded to Mr. Price?”
“Certainly not,” she snapped. Glancing at his face, she was struck by the unusual color of his eyes. Neither brown nor orange, they were a near-perfect match for a chunk of amber she remembered from the Bonds’ mantel in Cambridge. She could envision it clearly, though it had been nearly two decades since she’d seen it up close, clutched tightly in George Bond’s pale, sweaty palm. Transfixed, Hannah could practically hear his tinny voice:
You may look upon it but you may not touch it. It’s not for girls
.
She let the cloth slip away from the clock, and its soft sweep on her hands pulled her back to the present. She examined the instrument. It had a burnished mahogany casing and a gleaming brass plate fixed to the top. Someone had polished it carefully:
Pearl
, it read. Hannah smiled and lifted the cover, making a swift examination of the face, its Roman numerals and hands stilled at half- three.
“Lovely,” she murmured. The chronometers were beautiful machines. She loved their magnificent springs, the special construction that allowed them to keep time at sea, in spite of the pitch and roll and humidity. This one was English, made by Arnold; it probably kept to within five seconds.
“I’m sorry?”
“How has it done for the
Pearl
?” Hannah asked, inspecting the casing to keep herself from staring at the man’s features.
“
I do not know,” he answered. “I was not aboard her last voyage.”
“How did thee come to possess it, then?” She drew the clock closer to her body and took a second look at the man, wondering if she should take caution. Hundreds of captains, plus first and second mates, had brought their chronometers to the Price house to be rated over the years, but she couldn’t remember a single one that wasn’t white beneath his sun- and wind-browned skin.
“The first mate, Mr. Leary, is giving it to me this morning, to deliver for Mr. Price’s attention.”
“John Leary? Are you a boatsteerer?” Hannah realized too late that she’d dropped the formal address.
“I was. I am now second mate.”
Hannah could practically see the man grow an inch taller as he said it. She decided he couldn’t possibly be lying. It would be too easy to uncover such a deception: she knew Mr. Leary, as she knew everyone who had grown up on the Island. And there was no reason to suspect him, aside from the color of his skin. A twang of shame for her suspicions vibrated in her body as she snapped the cover closed.
“It’s a fine instrument,” she said, drawing the cloth back over its face. Normally she’d log all the required information right then, but she’d be late for Meeting if she did that. In fact, she was already late. And the house was empty.
“Can you return for it in a day’s time? We can have it ready in the afternoon.”
She ducked inside, put the chronometer down on the little table beneath the hat rack, and made to close the door, but he looked so perplexed that she paused in mid-swing.
“I was told— Mr. Price is not at home?”
Now Hannah was confused.
“Do you need to speak with my father? He’s not here. If you must, you can walk with me: it’s First Day, and he’ll be at Meeting. But you’ll have to wait. I need to douse the fire.”
He squinted at her.
“First Day. What you call Sunday. We order our days and months numerically.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, and she stepped back inside. There was no need to explain that the plain calendar evolved because early Friends recoiled from using names for days and months derived from pagan deities. Perhaps he’d be offended by it—who knew what sort of God he worshipped? After hesitating for a moment, Hannah closed the door with a gentle click. The gesture felt odd—she was coming back a moment later—but she didn’t want to leave him standing on the step in front of an open door. She didn’t consider inviting him in.
Scraping the ashes, it occurred to Hannah that the sailor wasn’t confused. He was worried about leaving the chronometer with her. Rocking back on her heels, she swiped her hands on her apron, then untied it and dumped it on the table before buttoning up her coat. Taking her bonnet from the rack, she knotted the strings swift and taut, then swung the door open again.
“You’ve no need to fear the fate of the
Pearl
’s chronometer,” she announced as she stepped onto the porch, yanking the door shut. “My father will oversee its adjustment with due care.”
When he didn’t respond, she marched down the flagstone path to the little gate, unlatched it, and then stood in the sandy street, waiting for him to follow. Hannah took a deep breath, hoping to quell the indignity of having to escort this sailor from who-knew-where to speak with her father because he thought a woman incapable of handling his ship’s chronometer.
He was slow as a slug. Hannah took off walking, happy to let him trail behind. The notion of a woman handling such a delicate and important thing would likely unnerve all twelve thousand whaling men on Earth, save her twin—but Edward was the exception to nearly every rule. At the corner of Main, she forced herself to wait in case the sailor didn’t know the way to the Meeting House.
By habit, she glanced up the street toward a three-foot-high stone obelisk in front of the Pacific National Bank, the markings on its face etched into her memory:
Northern extremity of the Town’s meridian line
.
Five years earlier, she and Edward had navigated the heavy cart containing that stone toward its designated resting place, the wheels sending up a mighty clatter that rattled their teeth through their laughter. Nathaniel led the way, marching with the spades perched on his shoulder like a sentinel at arms. Hannah recalled the ping of pebbles flying as they dug, the not unpleasant burning in her arms and shoulders.
“You’re listing, Hannah,” Edward had said, stumbling under the weight of the marker as the three of them guided it into place. “I hope your membership in the weaker Sex won’t mean broken toes for the men.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and adjusted her hands to counterbalance the weight.
“If the power of your reason exceeded your wit, we could discuss which Sex is truly the weaker.”
“As your elder brother, it’s my duty to model my outstanding wit in hopes that you’ll aspire to emulate it.”
“Elder by four minutes,” Hannah said, panting as they began to lower the stone.
“Best four minutes of my life.” Edward winked and nearly fell into the hole.
“Gently now, Prices,” Nathaniel murmured. A small crowd had gathered as they bent over the marker, and when the three of them straightened their backs, the patter of applause warmed Hannah’s cheek and lit her body with pride for the declaration they had made: the precise location of their Island would now be known to all passersby.
We are here!
the stones announced, and would for eternity.

when the sailor caught up they turned onto Main, where the modest little houses clad in identical grey shingles, home to most everyone Hannah knew, gave way to a series of newly built mansions set back from the cobblestone street, away from the rattle of carts and pedestrians. The pomposity of these grand homes made Hannah wince. The Three Bricks, identical structures built for the three sons of whaling patriarch Joseph Starbuck, wore their porticoes like feathered ruffs; the white clapboard Barrett house boasted an enclosed cupola and enough chimneys to incinerate the rest of the houses on the Island. A few blocks farther on, the ostentatious residences gave way to the commercial stretch of mapmakers and milliners, bakers and fishmongers, along the main artery of Nantucket Town. Lutherans and Unitarians and Friends all moved in a steady flow en route to their various houses of worship. Among them were the residents of the black neighborhood called New Guinea, on their way to the African Baptist Society’s Meeting House at the corner of Pleasant and York streets in Five Corners, just east of Town.

“Do you attend church?” Hannah glanced sideways at him, wondering if they had churches where he came from, or if it was an uncivilized, Godless place. It seemed unlikely, since his speech was elegant, if odd— somewhere between a clergyman and a deckhand. Yet there were many such places upon the Earth where people knew nothing of their Creator, or imagined there were many all at once.

“I am not religious,” he said. He walked with his hands at his sides and his eyes straight ahead. His stride was so steady he almost seemed to glide.

“They did at one time. When I was a young man. Now—” He paused. Hannah thought she heard him sigh. “I do not know.”
The street became more crowded as they drew close to the Meeting House, and a breeze carried the smell of fish and rancid oil, tar and sawdust, up from the wharves a few blocks away. Margaret Granger, an unsmiling woman of some thirty years who ran her mother’s shop, bustled down the opposite side of the street; her husband was aboard the
Regiment
with Edward. Margaret shot a quick, puzzled look at Hannah’s companion, then hurried on her way. It happened twice more on the short journey to the corner of Fair Street, and Hannah’s face was burning by the time they arrived.
She dropped back slightly as they crossed Main, stepping carefully on the uneven cobblestones. There wasn’t anywhere to hide among the shuttered, two-story wooden storefronts, and it was too late to pretend she hadn’t been walking alongside the man, even if she were inclined toward fakery. Nor should she: he’d come with a chronometer, and wished to speak with her father. There was no more or less to it. But she was equally annoyed with herself—for not having realized that strolling to Meeting alongside any stranger, much less this one, would stir scrutiny—and with her neighbors, who treated anyone they didn’t recognize as an unwanted guest.
Scanning the near-identical wooden buildings nestled together like candlesticks, she aimed for the shadow of the awning over John Darling’s Maps & c, at the corner of Fair Street. The wide, plain double doors of the Meeting House just down the street were obscured by a swarm of grey-bonneted women and black-hatted men, though three times as many could fit inside. The congregation seemed to diminish weekly; the vanished were evenly split between those no longer interested in adhering to the ever- tightening code of Discipline and those who’d been disowned after failing to do so.
Edward was among the former group, but had been well on his way to joining the latter when he left. He was spectacularly unconcerned about the possibility of disownment, which to Hannah seemed tantamount to being cast out of one’s family. She was in the minority of her peers, though. With disownments being handed down daily for infractions as minor as wearing a colored ribbon or singing in public, the heads of her fellow congregants were as uniformly grey as the building itself. The handful of young people who did remain did so mostly out of allegiance to their parents or grandparents.
“If I want to bore myself to sleep,” Edward had told Hannah a fortnight before the
Regiment
sailed, “I can do it in my own house well enough.”
“You’re not supposed to sleep at Meeting,” Hannah had answered. “You’re supposed to wait for insight. Revelation.”
“I
am
waiting. No reason I can’t wait here, where there’s coffee. And the newspaper.” He’d reached out and squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’m sure God can find me if He wants to have a word.”
While she waited for the tide of worshippers to diminish, Hannah tried to think of something to say to her companion, who’d circled back to stand beside her. Idle chatter was confounding. Should she ask him about the
Pearl
? About his origins? His proximity was unnerving, though his demeanor was calm as stone.
“What vessel were you with, before the
Pearl
?” she finally asked.
“I was boatsteerer upon the
Independence
, out of New Bedford.”
“The
Independence
? I heard about that ship. Over three thousand barrels and not a single injury or crew change the entire time. My brother read me an article about it.” Edward had been trying to shore up his argument for joining a whaling crew, but Hannah had reminded him that far more whalers ended up dismembered, dead, or lost at sea than did qualify for interviews by the
Nantucket Inquirer
.
“We are having good luck upon the journey.” The sailor bowed his head a little.
He’s modest,
Hannah thought. It was unusual for a whaler. Every one she knew enjoyed crowing about his superior skills with the reeling line or the harpoon.
“Did you by chance tie up with the
Regiment
on your journey home?” It was a long shot at best, but she couldn’t resist asking.
“I do not believe so. But I am not consuming spirits, so I am not always in the festivities when our ship is meeting others.”
“I see,” she said, mentally correcting his grammar while peeking around the edge of her bonnet. If she stalled for another minute, the crowd outside the Meeting House would disperse even further. She sneaked another look at her companion’s face. In profile he reminded her of an etching in a book at the Atheneum. But which plate? She risked another glance, and the image resolved. It was an etching that an enthusiastic pamphleteer had attached to a reprint of one of Mr. Emerson’s essays, from the series he’d published the year before. Hannah hadn’t read the entire thing, but it had caused a fair amount of talk and argument among borrowers. “Character,” it was called, and it began with a reference to Lord Chatham, who was depicted in the plate. The association between a great English statesman and a possibly illiterate black sailor was so bizarre that Hannah had to force herself to look away.
“That’s our Meeting House there,” she said, pointing. People were streaming toward the doors. Now was the perfect time for her to approach. She’d drop into the flow and slip in without being noticed. But taking him along would call attention, not deflect it.
“Do you still wish to speak to Mr. Price? If so, you’ll have to come along.”
The sailor made his own survey of the crowd. A small muscle in his cheek flexed as he studied the scene. They stood side by side. Pedestrian traffic flowed past like current around a boulder.
He doesn’t want to go over there any more than I do,
Hannah realized. She could see it in his face. She was oddly comforted.
He made up his mind.
“I entrust you,” he said with a small bow. Hannah tried to acknowledge it with an awkward nod of her own, but before she’d raised her head, he’d disappeared into the crowd of worshippers making their way down Main Street.